


84. lady hel

by piggy09



Series: The Sestre Daily Drabble Project [226]
Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Gen, ya girl thinking about that scene from hannibal every SINGLE day of her life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 12:05:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9656771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piggy09/pseuds/piggy09
Summary: Sarah shouldn't be the one to do this -- and yet here she is, scrubbing the blood off of Helena's hands.





	

**Author's Note:**

> [EVERY _SINGLE_ DAY](http://sharkodactyl.tumblr.com/post/135149867849)

Sarah shouldn’t be the one to do this. It should be Alison – Alison is gentler, horrible as that is to say. It should be Cosima, because her hands flit around her face like butterflies and she smiles so easily you forget that her teeth are sharp. It shouldn’t be Sarah. Sarah’s hands were made for fists. Sarah’s knuckles were made to split open.

But here she is, running the wet washcloth over Helena’s hands. Helena sits docile in front of her – like she doesn’t know how backwards this is, how Sarah is the last person she should want here. She should be able to tell. Sarah’s leg is jumping under the table so fast she thinks it’s going to fall off. She wishes anyone else was here.

“You don’t have to keep doing this,” she says. “Christ, Helena, you’re not a bloody – battering ram.”

“I want to help,” Helena says earnestly. The sincerity is spoiled somewhat by the splatter of blood on her face – it’s drying on her forehead, matting a bit of hair to her skin. Her eyes are wide. She would be so much easier to believe without all that blood; blood on her face, on her hands, soaking the fabric of Alison’s borrowed shirt. She wants to help. Of course she does.

“There’re other ways to help,” Sarah mutters to Helena’s hands. She dunks the washcloth back in the bowl of water and watches it bloom into a pale imitation of red. She wrings out the washcloth. Helena’s hands are still red. How much of the blood is hers? When Sarah is done, will she find that Helena’s knuckles are the same as hers? Do they split open the exact same way?

“I am not so good at those ways,” Helena says. “I am good with trouble.”

Sarah can’t deny that without lying, badly, so she just sighs. “We all get worried,” she says. Her voice is even quieter than it was before, even gruffer; it barely makes it out between her teeth. She scrubs at a patch of blood like it’s the source of all her problems, and Helena doesn’t even make a single noise of complaint.

She doesn’t make any noise at all, actually. Sarah risks a glance at her face and finds her tongue has wriggled out of her mouth so she can lick at a patch of blood by her nostrils. _Nasty_. Sarah looks back down at Helena’s hands as quickly as possible.

“I mean it,” she says, trying to convince herself. “Alison was a wreck when you called. Kept saying she didn’t know what you’d do if you’d gotten yourself hurt.”

“She doesn’t need to worry,” Helena says. She shifts a little in her seat – but her hand, where it is cradled in Sarah’s hand, is perfectly limp. “I do not lose fights.”

“You did to me,” Sarah points out.

“That wasn’t a fight,” Helena says promptly. “You cheated. Also I would never hurt you.”

The absurdity of that statement sinks in for a few seconds, and Helena’s right hand is clean. There’s dark rusty crescents under her fingernails, but those will wash off. Sarah was wrong: her knuckles aren’t anything like Sarah’s knuckles. Her hand looks soft.

“Gimme the other one,” Sarah says, and Helena obediently switches. Everything smells like warm metal, but Sarah ignores her impulse to throw up and starts scrubbing at the other hand.

“Thank you,” Helena says. Sarah stops for a moment, surprised despite herself.

“’course,” she lies. “Not a problem.”

“Nobody has ever done this,” Helena says. “For me. Before.” She’s back to fidgeting. Her right hand leaves Sarah’s field of vision; when Sarah looks up Helena is picking at the skin of her face. Flecks of dried blood confetti off of her and towards the ground.

“Well, you’ve got a family now,” Sarah says. “So.” Then she reconsiders. “So you can let us know when there’s trouble, yeah? You don’t have to take it all on yourself.”

“Okay, Sarah,” Helena says, in a voice that says the idea is very nice but not even worth considering. Sarah knows that voice. She’s used it herself so many times, but never for reasons that end up this bloody.

“I’m serious,” she says.

“I know,” Helena says.

“Good,” Sarah mutters. She decides to ignore that this is not a _yes_ , that Helena has not given her a _yes_. Fine. Helena can throw herself at any sharp thing that enters her family’s orbit, and maybe she’ll die, and maybe she won’t, and like hell can Sarah stop her so it must not matter. She’ll probably be fine. She seems so very certain that she’ll be fine.

All Sarah can do is help keep this lie alive: pretending that Helena’s hands are clean. Maybe for now it’ll work. Maybe, if they keep playing this game for long enough, it’ll stop feeling like pretending at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please kudos + comment if you enjoyed! :)


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